Twist
by FoodOfLove
Summary: The relationship between Mark and Roger from the first meeting onwards. MR slash, smut, stuff. R
1. A Tiny Spark

**A Tiny Spark**

It was a cold night, _cold_ meaning New York City in December at 10pm. The train from Scarsdale had just arrived in New York City. A young man in his early twenties stepped out through the door. As he exited the platform and stood outside the Grand Central Station, he had absolutely no idea where to go. His golden hair glowed in the moonlight as the scrawny Jewish boy sat on a bench, wondering what the hell he was doing here. Mark Cohen unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket, quietly stamping the address of his sister Cindy in his mind. But he was broke. And he had no idea how to get to Greenwich Village. Mark opened his olive green messenger bag and brought out his black camcorder and a screenplay he had written before leaving for New York. He unwound the camera and just began to film the scenery around him. But then he paused, realizing he was making a complete fool of himself. There was nothing to film.

"Fuck it," Mark muttered under his breath, returning his camera and screenplay into his bag. Out of nowhere, a young man carrying a guitar case stood right front of him, blocking his view of anything that wasn't in his peripheral vision.

"Excuse me, but I think you're sitting on my baggage." The man said. Mark stood up quickly to find a black duffel resting on where his butt used to be just a few seconds ago. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

"I'm sorry," Mark said quickly, handing the bag over to the larger man. "I'm Mark."

"Roger," the other man introduced himself hastily. He stretched out his hand and Mark shook it politely in return. "You new here in New York?"

"Yeah. Actually, I just arrived a few minutes ago. It…it's my first time."

"A _virgin_," Roger teased. "Well I just got here from the West Coast a few minutes ago, too. But I live in the East Village with my friend Tom."

There was something about Roger made a spark in Mark's head. Those electric blue eyes, the short, spiky bond hair, the toned arms… Roger's black leather jacket glimmered in the moonlight. His plaid pants were slightly odd, but something Mark found them rather fascinating. Roger Davis…Roger Davis… bloody hell, he was damn _gorgeous_. Suddenly Mark snapped out of that thought. What the hell was he doing? Better yet, what was he even _thinking_?

"Oh, well, um," Mark began to sputter awkwardly. "I'm… do you know how I can get to Greenwich Village?"

"I'm not too sure," Roger replied. "I've never been there. But if you want, you can stay at my place for now and maybe I can help you look for Greenwich Village tomorrow."

There was an uneasy pause. Suddenly the voice of Mark's mother began to ring in his head irritably.

"_A city of_ _sin!_" Her shrill Wicked-Witch-of-the-West voice yelled in his mind before it began to soften. "Just make sure you get to your sister safely, and then you can stay there until you can find a place of your own now, dear."

"Mark?" Roger's voice said softly, touching the young man's skinny shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Mark's mouth moved as if about to reply, but he couldn't. He just kept on hearing his mother's voice in his ear, like when he was just a little boy who hadn't even been Bar Mitzvah-ed yet. "Never talk to strangers, Marky. _Never!_" the voice went from his mother's normal voice to this witchy, frighteningly harsh yelling that began to drive Mark crazy. Mark held his hands to his ears and slid away from Roger crazily.

"I… I… I can't… _Stop it!_" Mark panted repetitively like a lunatic. It took a while before he was finally able to get a grip of himself. It took quite a while before the voice had faded, since by the time Mark had realized how bizarre he just was, at least twenty pairs of eyes were glaring at him, including Roger. They all gave him a _this-man-must-be-mental ­_look. Mark shrugged, and walked back towards Roger nervously, grabbing his moss-green satchel. "I'm sorry about that. I have to get to my sister's house tonight. I should just get a cab, I guess… thanks anyway."

Mark began to walk away. He was a foot away from the edge of the sidewalk when he turned back towards Roger with one foot, a skill that was usually found in dancers, and began to walk back towards Roger, embarrassed.

"You're broke, aren't you?" Roger smirked.

Mark sighed heavily. "Would you mind if I…"

"It was my offer, so I don't mind a bit." Roger's voice was friendly, and it somehow soothed Mark. "Come on." Roger grabbed his duffel and walked Mark to the East Village. It was a bit longer than a stroll in the park, but Mark considered it exercise, something that he believed he actually lacked.

Mark had a mix of various emotions and thoughts when he saw Alphabet City for the first time. It was the first time he had ever been to such place. Compared to his house in Scarsdale, this was…how should he put it? Sickening? Dreadful? A shithole? But he was among people who - according to Roger while they walked here - share the same sort of passion as him, even though that meant struggling through poverty and all that shit.

"Here we go," Roger stopped in front of a beaten-down old music publishing building covered in graffiti. Mark hesitated, but this was way better than freezing in the snow. Mark followed Roger up the stairs to the top floor. When they got there, Mark leaned on the sliding door to their loft. He was so damn exhausted, but Roger didn't even seem like he broke a single sweat. That thought made Mark more interested in the other man.

"Mark?" Roger's voice was soft, angelic. "Mark."

Mark shook. "What?"

"You're kinda blocking the door, man."

"Oh. Sorry." Mark moved away from the door as Roger slid it open.

"This is it," Roger said humbly. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks," was all Mark said in reply. It was such an awkward moment for him, being alone with this other character. This certain Roger Davis character that he was strangely attracted to. "Where can I sleep?"

Trying to be nice, Roger politely replied, "You can take my bed. I'll just sleep on the couch tonight."

"Oh…okay. Thanks, then." Mark hesitantly said in return.

XX

Cold. That is all that Mark feels at the moment, despite the fact that he is wrapped in three layers of blankets. His whole body is shivering, every inch of his skin quivering in the billion-below-zero temperature. How could this place not have heat? Mark cusses under his breath. He couldn't even reach for his glasses and walk to the kitchen. His scrawny body is curled up into a ball and he is practically immobile because of the goddamn cold. He was freezing to death here, and there was nothing he could do about. He wanted to call Roger for some reason. Then what, to keep him warm?

_Fuck, Mark, stop acting like such a baby_, Mark thinks to himself.

The door swings open. Mark doesn't dare to look at it anymore. Heck, he could barely move his neck, in fear that it would allow some of his body heat to escape. He couldn't risk it. It was probably just the wind. _The wind that didn't even fucking exist_.

Suddenly, Mark feels warmth. He feels pressure on the bed, and soon senses the presence of a warm body next to him. Comfortable. Snug. Mark uncoils his slender body and begins to relax. He feels better. He feels an arm snake its way around his stomach, pulling him closer. Mark smells a familiar scent that he clearly remembers from the man he had met a few hours ago. Mark feels warmth. Mark finds his arms wrapping around the larger man's body as well, as he takes in the rocker's sweet scent. He buries his face in Roger's hair, feeling the spiked tendrils against his skin. He may not see the other man clearly, but he knows who it is.

The two bodies sit up in a flash. Mark realizes what he had just been doing, and is confused. But he knew what he was doing. He was barely sure about whether or not he should do it, but Mark just gave in. In the morning he would go to his sister's place and never see Roger again. So Mark doesn't see anything wrong with the fact that his face is moving closer to Roger's. Mark leans in closer, and is the one who presses their lips together. For him it was awkward. Mark had never kissed another man before. But he suddenly feels Roger's fingers running through his hair. Roger returns Mark's kiss, parting his lips open. Mark places both arms around Roger and pulls Roger on top of him. He feels Roger's tongue licking the moist caverns of his mouth.

"Mark…" Roger mutters between kisses as Mark takes off his shirt, revealing Roger's toned upper body. Everything around them was freezing in the cold, but not Roger and Mark. Not anymore.

The kiss is broken for a moment, until both men are finally shirtless. Then Roger smashes his lips against Mark's. Their kiss is so aggressive that it causes Mark to gasp for air. He could barely breathe, not with Roger's heavy body pressed on top of his. _Something is definitely not right_, Mark thinks to himself. He pushes the musician away with as much force as he could at the moment. Not that he was that strong. But it caused Roger to pull away.

"Is something wrong?" Roger asks.

"We can't…" is all Mark can say in return. He is beginning to feel the cold creep into his system again.

"We don't have to if you don't want to…" Roger pouts, quickly pulling his shirt back on. He lies next to Mark and wraps himself in blankets. Mark puts his own shirt back on as well and does the same thing next to Roger. But as the cold takes over, Mark senses his arms moving towards Roger. It was his instinct. But as much as he wants to just let go of Roger, Mark…_doesn't. _

Roger's eyes flip open. Mark sees Roger's piercing eyes glaring at him. "Roger…" Mark whispers. Mark seems to be unaware that he is climbing on top of Roger's warm body. He plants a soft kiss on Roger, this time just giving in to whatever is about to happen. Once again, Mark parts his lips and allows Roger's tongue delve into his mouth. Mark feels Roger's rough fingers slip under his shirt and graze his bare back. Mark bites Roger's lower lip, hard, so that blood oozes out from it. Mark gently licks Roger's lips while tracing around them with his fingers. Roger whimpers for a moment before crashing his lips back into Mark's. Then Roger's lips trail downwards, planting gentle kisses on the filmmaker's neck, sucking on his pale skin until he leaves a bruise. His hands take hold of the garter of Mark's pants, but then Mark swats Roger's hands away.

"I need to get some sleep," Mark whispers with an uncomfortable look.

-

Mark awoke in an empty bed, hoping that whatever happened last night was only a dream. He lazily walked out of Roger's bedroom to see Roger drinking coffee on the battered couch and reading an old copy of _The Village Voice_.

"Morning," the two men greet each other in unison. Roger takes another sip of his coffee. He offers some to Mark, who claims to drink tea and not coffee during the mornings.

Mark scratches his head and runs his hands through his hair. Roger can't help but stare because Mark just looked so fucking beautiful. Roger does the same thing minus scratching. He runs his hands through his own spikes, but more with the intention of flirting. And like a magnet, he attracts Mark's attention. Mark doesn't get the point at first, but what he does notice is an awkward silence. Always count on Mark to break such moments.

"Thanks for letting me sleep over," Mark says. Roger stops playing with his hair since Mark didn't seem to understand. He doesn't reply, but instead Roger winks at him.

"You… you offered to help me look for my sister's place in… in Greenwich Village." Mark reminds Roger. Not that Roger forgot. He just wanted to ignore the young filmmaker, reluctant to allow the smaller man to just leave him. To Roger, whatever happened last night meant something. Roger felt a strong connection between the two of them. He felt a spark between himself and Mark. And it only takes a tiny spark to create a flickering flame.

Or a mean blaze.


	2. Definite Chemistry

**Definite Chemistry**

Mark doesn't remember the last time when he gazed into a guy's eyes like he does now. In fact, maybe he's _never _done this before. Neither does he recall ever catching that other guy staring at you back like Roger was doing. Neither does his mind recollect a single moment in the past when he felt electrocuted by such a stare. Mark looks away realizing that he may be staring for longer than normal.

"Umm, Roger…" Mark begins, but is silenced by Roger's index finger on his chapped lips. For some reason, Mark's glasses slide down his nose and Roger pushes them back up.

"I'll take you to your sister's place in a few," said Roger's hoarse voice in an unsuccessful attempt to sound soft. Mark pulls back and hurries to get to his stuff. _Fuck you_, Roger thought. He shows Mark that he feels a strong connection between them, and the filmmaker just wants to leave like that? It just doesn't feel right to Roger. Heck, it isn't just Mark who felt awkwardness last night; Roger felt it too. He still feels it, because never in the past has he felt attracted to another man like this. He's a fucking rockstar. He's got women in almost all directions and in fact, when he was in Los Angeles, the Well Hungarians got to sleep with at least five women a night. And now this… Roger can't explain what he's feeling right now… about Mark. Everything seemed so new to him. When he first saw Mark last night the first thing Roger thought was: _he's bloody gorgeous_.

"Hey, about last night…" Mark starts again, emerging from behind the couch, but yet again Roger stops him.

"I'm not queer, Mark…" But was he? Roger wasn't necessarily _queer_, maybe just confused, perhaps? Yeah, right, as if anyone still believes that kind of lame excuse.

"Neither am I," mumbles Mark. "Whatever happened…"

"It's nobody's business but ours," Roger finishes Mark's statement for him. He shuffles out of the wooden stool he was sitting on and grabs his leather jacket. "We go now."

XX

Roger couldn't have been more irate as he walked with Mark on the street. He doesn't speak, but instead he stares blankly at his feet as he walks at double Mark's speed. Mark simply trudges behind Roger, unable to keep up at such an early hour in the morning. Roger's hospitality suddenly vanished and it begins to make Mark curious, curious and doubtful. Mark shifts his bag from his left shoulder to his right and jogs through the slow New York human traffic until he reaches Roger. Mark pulls on Roger's coat with an unexpected force hard enough to yank the jacket off. Roger quickly spins around. "What the fuck is your problem? You wanna go to your sister's house, right?"

"Yeah… I mean… no… I mean…" Mark can't seem to think of anything coherent to say at the moment. For a second there he suddenly changed his mind about still going to Cindy's place, but now he feels like he's in a state of dilemma. Fuck this. "Nothing. Let's go."

"Right." Roger snatches the jacket out of Mark's hand. "We can take the subway."

Mark feels like a lost cat in this big and buzzing city. He doesn't know anyone (except for his sister and this grouchy man next to him), doesn't know his way around and is still childishly amazed by the lights and sights and sounds of this place. Actually, Mark feels like an idiot.

The problem with Roger was that he always made spur-of-the-moment decisions he doesn't even think about. Like saying that they're taking the subway, for example. He was broke, and so was Mark. That means that they can't use the subway, nor the bus, and especially not a cab. The only option left is walking, an essential part of New York living. It was exercise in moderation, but death when you're broke. Roger slows down and places a firm hand on Mark's shoulder when he got ahead by a step.

"I'm broke." Mark says. He knows Roger is broke. "I don't wanna walk all the way there… I… do you mind if I could stay in your loft for a while longer?"

Suddenly Roger's face lights up. He turns around and begins to walk in the opposite direction. Mark trails behind him. "Is-is that a yes?" he asks.

"Yes," was Roger's one-word reply. They were only four blocks away from the loft anyway.

The temperature was way below zero on the street, and Mark can't help but shiver once they enter the loft. There was no heat, and it was actually warmer when they were outside. Mark flings his duffel onto the couch as he turns to Roger and whispers, "Thank you."

Mark's voice resonates in Roger's ear, the sound reverberating throughout his body. All of a sudden, Roger pulls the smaller man closer and presses their lips together. Mark's eyes widen at this feeling. Kissing Roger felt like heaven, but it was also different. He had never kissed a guy before he arrived here in New York, but as Roger's tongue licks Mark's lips he gives Mark a feeling that he's been doing this for a long time. Kissing Roger is nothing like kissing Nanette. Nanette always seemed naïve even though she and Mark had been together for four months. Nanette was fifteen then. Twenty now, and she still kisses like that.

But Roger's rough, chapped lips against Mark's soft ones cause a certain friction that adds to the intensity of the moment as Mark gives in and opens his mouth to the musician. Hands travel down Mark's back and he feels the tingle of Roger's hands on his spine. Mark whimpers and pulls away to take a breather.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… was I moving too fast?" Roger says, only to be heard by Mark's scarf snaking around his neck. Mark tugs at the ends and smashes their lips back together. Mark no longer cares if he still hasn't brushed his teeth. Neither has Roger, anyway. Again Mark allows Roger's tongue to enter his mouth like before. They even crash into the couch because Roger is too heavy for Mark to handle standing up.

Roger climbs on top of Mark pinning the smaller man down with both arms as his mouth travels down Mark's neck. Mark's red sweater gets in the way, so Roger sits back up and pulls Mark up as well, lifting the young filmmaker's shirt over his head. He takes off his own shirt as well, and grabs the quilt sitting on the coffee table, hauling it over their heads.

Under the sheets Roger's lips snake around Mark's neck, teeth gnawing at the filmmaker's fragile skin. First blood is drawn when Roger reaches Mark's right shoulder. Mark groans; this was the shoulder where he had just slung his heavy duffel and his shoulder is aching from that. Roger retracts from that spot to let it rest, but he is met by Mark's tight grip on his scarf, pulling him back in.

"Okay, if you wish," Roger manages to mutter with a grin, before planting his lips back on Mark's. He probably pushed too hard when he shoved his tongue back in, because once he does so, Mark stumbles off the couch and onto the floor.

The filmmaker quickly stands up. He grabs his shirt from one of the deteriorating arm rests of the couch and puts it back on. "I… I can't do this… I said so earlier… (You said so too) I'm not… I'm not queer. I'm not _gay_, Roger. I'm sorry." Mark stammers, his body shaking both from what just happened and the frigid weather.

_Shit_, Roger scolds himself. He said it as well, and yet he was the one who forced himself onto Mark in the first place, even last night. What should he do?

The phone rings. Roger's hoarse voice on the answering machine sounds out: _Hi, you've reached Roger and Tom. Leave a message. _beep

"Mark… Mark, are you there? It's mom. I'm glad you gave us this number. Cindy called. She said that you're not at her place yet. What is that place you're in right now? People are expecting you at Greenwich. Attend to them, for God's sake! It's her son's bar mitzvah tomorrow and you'd better be there!" the shrill voice of his mother continues to taunt Mark even after the message ended.

"Your mom's right. You… you should go," Roger suggests.

Mark nods reluctantly. "I know… I'm sorry to have overstayed." He picks up his duffel again and walks out the door, the musician walking not too far behind him. They both quickly make their way down the stairs and out of the building.

--

It's like déjà vu when they get back on the street, back where they were earlier. The crowd is different from how it was a half hour ago, but the same food stands, buildings and bums rest in the same places. This time, Mark walks ahead of Roger for the first few blocks, stopping when he no longer knew which way to go.

Roger walks past a homeless blind man and sneaks a hand into the cup, nicking a few bills. He jogs to Mark, waving the bills in front of the other man's face.

"Where'd you get those?" Mark asks.

"On the street."

"Bullshit."

"It's for the subway, so we can get to your sister's place faster," argues Roger. "So shut the fuck up and turn left. Your mom is scary."

Mark chuckles and does so, entering a subway station. Roger buys two single-ride tickets to Greenwich. He hands them both to Mark.

"You're not gonna help me when I get there?" Mark asks, confused.

"I won't have enough money to get back home. Just ask around. The other ticket's just in case you change your mind… again." Roger sighs. "It expires in two hours though. Um… I don't know how to say this without sounding retarded, but—I'll miss you."

"I'll… miss you too," Mark mouths. "It was nice meeting you, Roger Davis." The filmmaker turns around, steps toward the platform, and boards the next train. Roger just stands there to watch.

--

**Please review. This one's a prompt.**

**Kaye**


	3. Making Moments Last

**Making Moments Last**

Airy sounds, then the train doors slide open. Mark takes a deep breath. Stepping out of the train gives him both relief and anxiety. Those euphoric moments – those mind-blowing kisses and the nerve-splitting moans – resonate in Mark's head. He pauses for a moment, standing awkwardly in the middle of the platform. People brush past the filmmaker, who stands oblivious to the world and thinks whether or not he should go through those gates. His hands are both full. One is supporting the green sling bag flung over his shoulder, and clutched on the other hand is the spare subway ticket, _just in case he changes his mind_. The shrill voice of his mother continues to haunt him and he uneasily follows the crowd of people flocking towards the gates. Mark reached the stairs, climbed them upwards, and took a heave of the cold air. Greenwich, being a neighbour of the East Village, seemed pretty much the same, save for the scarcity of squatters leaning on walls and sleeping on the pavement.

Mark finds himself lucky to spot a crumpled twenty half-buried in a small lump of snow in the ditch on the side of the road. He slowly picks it up, smoothens it, and stows it in his pocket. A few steps ahead Mark stops by a small newspaper stand to ask about his sister's location. Two bucks for bottled water… five if he was gonna ask without buying. Mark buys the water. His sister's apartment was going to be a two-minute walk from where he stands, and Mark is relieved because it is good news for him; in two minutes he would be on his sister's couch watching television and eating potato chips. Great. Then, he would gain a hundred pounds in that house by living off Heineken and Lay's every damn day.

_Great._

XX

When Roger returns to his apartment, he finds his fists pounding at the window. His skin begins to crack and blood creeps out from his knuckles as the glass of the window begins to crack open. Tears run down his cheeks, his blazing green eyes pretending that the window is Mark. How _dare _he just let the guy leave like that? He just fucking stood there. Roger knows that he could have done something, like buy another ticket with some of the money he nicked and catch the next train, get off at Greenwich and plead that Mark stay with him longer… like in the movies. But fuck no, he isn't queer like that. But because those thoughts were just racing through his head, Roger asks himself… is he?

From the moment he saw the filmmaker Roger had already felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins. He had thought that pretending not to know where Greenwich was would be an excuse to have to spend time and get to know the guy, probably, and it had worked for the night. Today, however, there was no longer an excuse for Mark to stay at the loft any longer. That message with Mrs. Cohen's shrieks just made everything worse. _Fuck Mark for giving her the number_. So, what, now Mark's gone, and he most likely won't return to the loft.

The musician freezes for a while, staring at his bloody knuckles. Deep crimson flowed from his hands, and Roger runs over to the bathroom to wash them. The sink is stained a pale red and Roger wraps both knuckles in old bandages he finds lying on his bedroom floor. He dampens his hair under the showerhead as well, but not his whole body because he might freeze to death. He feels weak, and one should not be surprised because of all the pain he just allowed himself to go through; it was unnecessary. Roger trudges to his bed and takes a second to glimpse at the clock. It is only eleven o'clock, and yet Roger's nostalgia seems to be unmatched with anyone else. As soon as his knee grazes the mattress, Roger's eyes are instantly flushed with tears. Last night was fucking amazing. Roger still can't believe that Mark could leave just like that. He feels betrayed. Mark… the jackass. _Well, he still has an hour and something to decide_. That's an hour and something of inner anguish for Roger. Fucking whore.

As soon as his head touches the pillow, the tears stop and Roger sinks into an unfeeling void.

XX

Mark finds himself on Cindy's doorstep. His redhead brother-in-law opens the door and greets him. Mark fakes a smile and enters once invited in. He sees Cindy, who gives him a thwarted look for being there later than expected. His eyes fall on her twelve-year-old son, the one with the bar mitzvah tomorrow. Mark sees himself in the young boy, who shared the same stringy blond hair as him. He attempts to make a cute greeting to his scrawny nephew, but it backfires when the kid calls him immature. Mark shrugs and asks for a drink. Of course, he isn't given alcohol because of the population of children at the event. Suddenly, maybe the young boy isn't _anything _like him after all. From what Mark can recall, he had sent tons of invitations to his classmates for his bar mitzvah, but hardly anyone came because the even coincided with the popular girl's birthday party. Barely anyone he was unrelated to was actually at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Centre that day, save for Rabbi Himmelfarb and his daughter, Nanette. When _That's What Friends Are For_ played, the song had to be changed because Mark had no real friends to speak of, let alone anyone to dance to that song with. The memories still haunt Mark today, to his dismay. How fucking refreshing.

Mark barely lasts five minutes in the house before asking to be excused. Cindy aggressively grabs his arm.

"Oh no you don't," she sneered. "You're always skipping our family gatherings, but not this one."

Mark sighs. What the hell is he thinking, anyway? He can already imagine himself re-entering Roger's loft. He already has the key, even though he is still hesitant of using it, since the two had only met yesterday. The events that have occurred during the past 24 hours alone are already more than Mark can handle in that given period of time, and it's hard for the young filmmaker to keep up with such a pace. Scarsdale was so much more peaceful, but then his memories there were not the kind of blissful childhood memories everyone longs to have. In terms of his social health in his adolescent years (and maybe even until now), the status is at rock bottom. Of course, it wouldn't be too surprising, because Mark's paroxysmal, hyperactive gestures, incoherent rambling and that annoying messenger bag he always carries around aren't the most pleasing to most people. Nanette is an exception.

Here in New York, Mark has plans. He has plans of making different memories to look back to. He has plans of finishing a film, et cetera. He definitely doesn't want to waste his Brown degree on sticking to the same lifestyle he has lived with for the past twenty-two years. He doesn't want to screw up these plans, because that would just be utterly depressing for him. _Plans_. Mark makes sure that the word sticks to his brain so he doesn't swerve from his actual goals in this city… this so-called "city of sin" as his mother would put it. Whether or not Mark would succumb to the "sin" of this city was no longer an issue. He already did last night.

It takes a matter of seconds when Mark finally decides to assert himself. "I'm out."

Cindy runs up to him. "What the _heck_ are you doing? You can't skip this!"

"Watch me," the filmmaker says proudly at his older sister and marches out of the living room.

Mark is rarely this deviant towards his family. In fact, Mark Cohen grew up as a lap dog to his mother and sister, but his ticket would be expiring soon and he doesn't want to stay in this boring shit hole any longer. He picks up a few bills splattered all over the doorstep by a generous guest (actually, no, the man just dropped them, but Mark takes them anyway) and marches out of the vicinity towards the same Subway station that he had come from only minutes ago. He just can't stand those people anymore.

He has a train to catch.

XX

When Mark arrives, Roger is wasted in his bedroom. Mark doesn't know whether he should wake the sexy bitch up or just wait for him to wake up.

"I'm back," Mark says, though the primary intention is that it is only mumbled to himself, but the mere sound of his voice caused a certain Roger Davis to suddenly awaken. His piercing eyes shoot up at Mark instantly, his body jolts upwards and he suddenly tackles Mark to the ground in a sharp move. Mark lets out a soft groan from the collision between his head and the hardwood floor.

Roger doesn't waste a single moment when he snaps his jeans button right off. His eyes are ablaze and his hair turns into fire, and everything about him evolves into sex and lust and discontent with the previous night and the morning that the mere minutes spent without Mark had pushed him into withdrawal. And the scrawny young man's sudden return was relief. It's a fucking cocaine trip, and the musician could no longer keep himself from every single thing he has been itching to do, as if the few minutes without Mark caused him to grit his teeth and scratch himself senseless. Well, actually, it's more like punching the wall until his knuckles are bleeding and numb, but the man was illin' for Mark and it was more than evident in his face and actions. The zipper was already down and Roger hastily undressed himself, while still on top of the filmmaker. The movements were just so abrupt that Mark could barely keep up. Mark gasped once the musician's boxers were already at his ankles. The mass between Roger's legs was now massive, hard and ready to drive into Mark.

Mark succumbs to the power of this city of sin.

He does so with a smirk, biting his lower lip and undoing his own trousers. Roger does the honour of pulling them down, and Mark turns around so his chest is pressed against the cold floor. There is definitely a lot of pain, especially with his growing erection being flattened and frozen. And the pain becomes excruciating and yet pleasurable, when Roger takes possession of the filmmaker and enters in full force. No lube, no condom, nothing. It was all Roger – raw and rough and so fucking mind-blowing that he had to cover Mark's mouth with his raw, rigid hands to muffle his screams. It would take a while before Mark would be able to master the act of taking possession of him, the musician thought, and so he just continued to take pleasure in and on the young filmmaker, glasses now down to his scrawny nose. The smaller man is even unable to move his hands to fix them; the weight of Roger on top of him is too damn heavy to take, but is so in this infuckingcredible way that just causes Mark to submit himself. Roger rides Mark until he comes, and when he is tired he pulls the naked man up, noticing that the floor under him is damp.

The musician smirks and picks up Mark's fallen glasses, returning them to the filmmaker lightly, as if he didn't just fiercely fuck the hell out of the guy. And when Roger bends down, he feels Mark's eyes upon him, stalking his naked body as it bends over to collect he black-framed lenses. The filmmaker can't help himself, anyway. The other guy is just so damn beautiful. Upon receiving his glasses and placing them back on, the men fall silent, naked, in the cold room. That is, until Mark finally makes a move, taking Roger's mouth in his, playing with his own tongue as it intertwines with Roger's, and they play with each other with their own form of the tango, and his hands touch Roger hard, just about as raw and rough as the musician's rock-hard erection as it moved in and out of Mark's tightening ass.

When Mark finally stops, he speaks again, only the second sentence spoken since his return. "I'm back," he repeats.

"I know," Roger says in return. "_I know_."


	4. Third Party

**Third Party**

Bondage and discipline. Domination and submission. Sadism and masochism. Nothing better than good old BDSM can define Mark and Roger's relationship over the next few weeks. Their mornings are composed of breakfast and sex. At noon, it's lunch and sex. At night, sex. This is their daily routine, and, alone in the loft, they get away with it. Mark decided to screen all calls from his family; he deserves peace, for God's sake. And then Roger would lie on the bed with a sprawl like a jaguar; Mark knows the musician's aggressive, hard side, but he knows that the other can also be poised, perfect. _Perfect_, that is how Mark best describes his new roommate. His status as a resident of the loft has been made official by Roger on his fifth day in New York, and both men are more than glad about it; they're ecstatic. And when the two would begin to kiss, and Roger and Mark open their mouths to each other, allowing each others' tongues to intertwine, it is pure magic, and Roger is pure _perfection_. Despite Roger's reassurance, however, Mark still can't help but feel that he lacks something, especially comparing himself with Roger, the man he… _loves_? Maybe it isn't love just yet, but it would be someday, perhaps. It's a possibility, but Mark has no assurance of that. The rockstar is just so damn beautiful, it makes Mark feel tiny, insufficient. When the rush of the kiss turns passionate, and the blood travels lower into their bodies, Roger would take on his role as the fierce, feisty animal that Mark would sometimes picture him to be, and it's pure magic… pure _perfection_. Roger is Mark's dominatrix: his power, his pleasure, his pain.

And the feeling would be like this every day, three times a day. When Roger would have a gig, Mark would enter Roger withdrawal, nipping at anything he sees. It's a cocaine trip, and Mark itches for friction. It's the friction he's constantly after, and jealousy easily burns within him, thinking of Roger on that stage surrounded by women that would easily and willingly throw themselves at him any time. It's not like Mark to be this way, but why does Roger make it so difficult? There are also those days when their other roommate, Tom, would visit. Collins, that's what he asks Mark to call him. In those instances Mark and Roger force themselves to act as straight as possible, resisting the urge to give even the slightest glance that showed any signs of arousal, whatsoever. Mark doesn't understand this, though; Collins is gay, isn't he? Mark doesn't understand why his relationship with Roger should be so much of a secret. Then the thought dawned on him: it was for the same reason why he wouldn't want his parents to know about it as well. Everything makes sense. Everything falls into place. Whatever. Fuck it. So what if it has to be a secret? Mark and Roger are fine. They're happy. But how long will the secret remain a secret? Or worse, how long will this secret affair last?

--

Mark begins to spend more nights alone in April. Roger's band is performing almost every night now, and Mark feels desperate and pathetic. Those thoughts at night pursue him again, and he turns insomniac without the sex. Sure, it's possible that he's just totally oversexed by Roger, and the fact that every time they would do it, they would do it raw doesn't help much in the department that deals with easily getting over it. Oh god, Mark is _so _oversexed; it's evident in his face. His hormones are always like that at night now, craving for the friction and pleasure that Roger always gave him. And he only craves for _Roger_'s friction, _Roger_'s cock driving into him. Mark finds himself addicted, in almost a stupid way. _Faggot_, he shouts to himself at night when he is alone. _Faggot_, he would yell to himself. _Shut up, faggot, _a neighbour's voice would shout from outside. And that's how it is for Mark almost every night. He can't even stroke himself anymore. Masturbation just isn't enough for him. It's different to feel Roger's rough, calloused hands touching him in almost every way possible, every way that no one would even imagine to feel so damn good. Because of this, Mark can't touch himself in those places anymore. It seems so cheap to him now, compared to how it is with Roger.

The kink is another issue. Sex in broad daylight involving Mark's favourite scarf and Roger's pair of handcuffs that he casually clips onto his jeans is always Mark's favourite thing to do. Mark doesn't even think that he can take a shower anymore without his eyes landing on so much of a bruise, a mark or a cut of some sort. When Roger lashes out at Mark, lashing meaning a _whip_-lash, the pain is excruciating, and the filmmaker's pale, fragile skin would easily crack, the slightest trace of blood already drawn at the first hit. It's the way that Roger takes possession of him that makes everything so nostalgic in his absence. Mark doesn't even find himself capable of taking possession of himself in that way. It's too _Roger_. Not that it's a bad thing though. It's just painful for the young filmmaker, who begins to see himself as an addict. Why can't Roger just leave hid band so that he could stay with Mark, instead? Of course, Roger's a rockstar, not a sex toy. But that doesn't mean that he can't be Mark's sex toy, does it?

Roger would still go home though, but not at a time that Mark would notice anymore. When Roger arrives, Mark is cold in his bed, still freezing although his mind is raging. In the morning Mark would wake up and Roger's already at the kitchen, and when it was time to continue their routine, Roger whips out a condom from his jacket pocket. It becomes a blur to Mark. Since when did they need condoms, anyway? Mark becomes confused. There is now coldness between the two men. The indifference is a surreal blur, and Mark wants answers. The first thing that comes to his mind that Roger's been seeing someone else. Whether it was a guy or a girl doesn't matter to the filmmaker. It rarely does. But then discomfort begins to arise at night and a nauseating hole begins to form in the pit of Mark's stomach. He can't call it officially cheating, because he and Roger don't consider themselves as a former couple.

Mark still doesn't understand the point of the condoms.

--

One night Mark finally decides to go to CBGB's during one of Roger's shows to see what keeps the guy so busy. He sees the musician onstage, playing a song that Mark has heard one too many times at the loft as Roger practiced it. Roger said, while writing the song, that it's for Mark. _Let me fall into you, into the unknown. _While played acoustically the song makes Mark smile, and the final riffs bring him to the verge of tears. But onstage, _fuck_, the sight of girls raving at the sight of Roger is almost infuriating. Mark watches Roger fervently, observing the tiniest details such as the way his lips curl into the shape of a heart when he sings words like "along", and how he pretends to be singing at a particular person when he's actually focused on an inanimate object. Mark notices how light is reflected from his deep green eyes, the way his pupils look white and dilated, almost like they really are dilated. He observes the amount of energy Roger exerts into his performance, how he strums roughly on his guitar with his calloused hands, how even the stiffened hair on his head, slightly longer than when they had first met, seems to come alive with every time Roger jumps into the air. Then Mark notices Roger's gaze turn his direction, his pupils still wide and whitened by the green iris that makes it seem like even the dilated pupil isn't there. The filmmaker manages to smile, but he takes a closer look at Roger's eyes, almost getting lost in the deep green that always turns him on. That body may be leaning in his direction, but those eyes aren't gazing at him.

Her name, as Mark soon learns after the show, is April. She unsurprisingly fits almost every category of what Mark pictures as the stereotypical crack-whore-slash-junkie-slash-groupie type of person. Her messy, unkempt hair, drooling eye makeup and dark red lipstick only make up for the facial part. Mark scans the girl from head to toe, his eyes almost popping at how the thin, lacy material of her bra peeks out of her jet black mini-dress. She wears a shrug the same colour as Roger's eyes and her hooker boots have holes in them. She's also wearing those tights that strippers and drag queens usually wear. Hers are torn and white, and don't go all the way up. They look more like socks, except sheer. Despite how much Mark criticises the girl in his head, his hormones still cause him to find himself attracted to her as well. Mark even begins to think that fantasising over a female is a queer thought now; all he could think about was Roger for the past few weeks. Mark doesn't see himself as gay or anything like that though… especially now that he finds himself physically attracted to this girl, April. _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? _April's not the enemy. She's just the competition.

The same night is the first night that Roger brings April to the loft. Mark distances himself from Roger as they climbed the stairs, lagging a few steps behind, a furious gaze at Roger's hands on April's and April's on Roger's. Hands down her back, hands down his back. He smiles at her, she smiles that catty grin at him. Roger places his fingers through the neckline of her shirt. April groans softly. Roger's pupils are still dilated. April's pupils are also dilated. Mark wishes his eyes are dilated, so he could fit in. Roger touches April. April touches Roger. Mark grows hard. Roger slides the door open. April is cradled to his side. Mark is still hard. Mark is hard and throbbing, like his heart just moved along with the rest of blood towards his cock. Mark gets confused. Is he having an erection over Roger, or April?

"Care for another hit for the road?" April says softly her eyes suddenly looking normal again (Mark notices this once the light from the moon touches them, showing off that feline glow), taking a small pack of yellowish powder from inside one of her boots. Mark finally realises why Roger and April have been looking and acting the way they did on the stairs. _Of course. _Stupid Mark.

Roger, April and Mark sit on the couch. Roger is in the middle, with Mark on his right and April on his left. The filmmaker watches as April pours some powder into her left palm and quickly snorts it up her nose. Mark notices the change in her facial expression, and then her eyes are widened again. She passes the packet to Roger, who asks, "Why'd you settle for _this _cheap shit? I told you the needles work better." He does the same thing as April and his face changes in the same way. Mark watches, unbelieving of the sight. So _that's _what Roger's been doing all this time?

Mark feels the packet dumped on top of his cock. It's still hard and lord knows why. He glances at Roger, at the twisted expression on his face. He's surprised at how the filmmaker still manages to cock his head, urging Mark to take some of it. Mark has never done anything like this before. Everything is just so new and… how come he never figured it out before? Mark feels stupid again. He's still hard, and he'll probably remain hard, now that Roger's hands are tugging at April's shirt, lifting it up. The lacy material of April's bra is almost transparent, Mark notices while still sober. He wants to join in; it's obvious in the way his eyes almost pop out of his face staring at them, how he bites his lower lip until blood almost flows out, the way the tips of his ears embarrassingly turn pink. Mark observes the pack of heroin in front of him. Roger's words repeat in his head, _the needles work better_. So he's been shooting up? He was snorting today, but… oh fuck, is that why Roger's been using condoms lately, abnormal to his usual routine with Mark? Shit, does Roger have AIDS?

"I'm going to sleep," Mark says, sounding angrily. He goes into the spare room that he has come to call his own and stares at the ceiling, still fully clothed with his shoes on. He can hear the loud groans of the smack-headed roommate of his and that _girl_, who is hot but also not so hot because she's Roger's girlfriend. Mark's just Roger's roommate. _Fuck this_. Mark has the temptation to stick his hand down his pants, but he just _can't_. Everything's getting so fucked up and Mark begins to wonder why he's here in the first place.

--

It is only the following morning when Roger confesses that he's sick. Mark finds him sprawled on the couch naked, except for a huge blanket covering the lower part of his body, that's it. April is nowhere to be seen. Mark throws a pillow at Roger's cock, which awakens the musician. Roger's awakening (wow, _awakening_, the word has a nice ring to it, Mark thinks) is instant. Everyone knows that all guys wake up with erections. Having a throw pillow, er, _thrown _at it won't be the most comfortable thing in the world.

"Morning," Mark says softly, sitting on the coffee table across from the couch. "Breakfast?"

"I was thinking of something else, really," Roger purrs. He's usually not like this so early in the morning. Mark had been anticipating some sort of grumpy-ass reply that would drive him away. And then Mark would make breakfast, then they eat, then they fuck. But this isn't one of those days. Roger takes two small square packets from under one of the cushions, and flashes it at Mark. "We could do _this _first," he continues. "You know, as a little change of scheduling." He shows no traces of having a hit just a few hours ago.

"Yeah, about that," Mark says, hesitant to continue on what his point _really _is. "Why?"

"Because I'm naked, and you look so undersexed it's sad." Roger removes the light sheet away from him, so Mark can see all of his treasures. Actually, to someone like, say, April, it might just be his hard cock, but to Mark, it's a fucking gold mine. There's Roger, sitting naked in front of him, condoms still in his hand. Mark doesn't look at Roger's cock at once. He first gazes as the older man's navel, tracing that line of golden hair down to home base. But those condoms are still in his hand and Mark still doesn't understand.

"I'm talking about the condoms, you horny asshole." Mark corrects him aggressively. "Why the fuck do we suddenly have to use them?"

"No glove, no love," smirks Roger, even though Mark only grimaces. It is then that Roger realises that _hey, this guy is serious, and I should tell him_. "Fine, I'll tell you."

"You know what? Whatever, I know it already."

"Hey Mark, I just wanted to keep you safe, okay? I don't want the same thing to happen to you." Roger says, every word filled with honesty.

"But why do you have to be such a slut?" Mark frowns, speaking in monotonous, one-syllable words filled with contempt and disdain. It is then when Roger throws a crumpled sheet of paper at him. The date shown is of two days ago. It is Roger's HIV test, and the resentment in Mark melts away into pure pity. Mark crushes the sheet in his hand, tears forming in his eyes. He saw it coming. "So… April?" Mark finally manages to continue.

"I haven't told her." Mark is surprised at the musician's reply. _So he didn't get sick from April? Fuck. _

"Sorry, Rog, I'm not in the mood for this today." Mark stands up, takes the condoms from Roger's hands and gently slides them back under the cushion. His face is expressionless and numb, like it's saying, _I have nothing to say to you_. The filmmaker walks to their makeshift kitchen, and cooks breakfast.


	5. Benny and Maureen

this chapter is crazy short, but i've had the file since january and i should really move on with the story.

* * *

**Benny and Maureen**

It is now noon and he's sitting alone at the Life, contemplating on the news of earlier today. The café is quiet right now, which the filmmaker finds unusual but relieving at the same time. Mark is sipping a tea he probably can't even pay for, but he's drinking it anyway. It's Moroccan mint green tea, and it's a flavour that's new to him. He likes it. A shadow looms over Mark's skinny figure. The man's skin is dark, and looks almost like a silhouette from Mark's point of view. Against the light, his already dark skin looks black as night, but those teeth carried by that unique smile made him recognise the man instantly.

"I didn't think I'd see you here," Benny says with his mouth still grinning. Mark stands up gleefully. He shakes the man's hand and pulls it into a friendly hug, a gesture that a lot of men do very often when meeting old pals.

Benjamin Coffin III is Mark's old roommate from Brown. Mark can't believe that he's here, _now_. They were best friends. Benny, as Mark can still clearly and easily recall (a year isn't that long a time span), wants to be a bigtime producer. In college the two used to always plan their supposedly successful future production company, but things have changed since then. Mark is so sure that Benny's supposed to be in San Francisco or something. Hence, he has no idea why Benny is in New York, here in front of him.

"Care to join me?" Mark invites Benny to a seat. "I feel like such a dork right now."

"As you've always been," Benny teases. "So, where are you staying? The Waldorf? The Marriott? The…"

Mark interrupts him. "East Village."

"Oh." The tone of Benny's voice isn't condescending at all. His face falls, pausing for a moment, before beaming again. "That's cool. I expected you to be staying in one of those big Midtown flats by now, you know? But then it would be unlikely to find you in this side of town. Do you live in Alphabet City? With who? Oh yeah, you have a sister in Greenwich, right? Why don't you move in _there_?"

"Oh please, no. I'm Tired Of Those People." Benny can hear the capital letters. "Plus, Cindy's a Bitch. The Wicked Bitch of the East. It's not like I can stand twenty-four hours under the same roof as her." A short laugh escapes from Mark's old roommate. It sounds like a bark. Mark takes another sip of tea, before he continues, "How bout you? Where are youstaying?"

"Actually I just got here," Benny, ever the charmer, replies casually. "My stuff's in the rental car, but I don't really have a place to stay right now. This sucks. I thought you'd be staying in a hotel or something—" his voice turns into a tease. "—so we could be roomies again. But I guess not… oh well."

"Hold that thought." Mark adjusts his glasses, which seem to be sliding down to his nose. "You could still stay with me, I guess. There's still some space at the loft, and my roommates are pretty cool." Maybe Roger won't mind. Collins is barely home, anyway. And he's most likely gonna be cool with it. Mark excludes the detail about both Roger and Tom being sick, thinking that it isn't important. From what he recalls, Benny's not a junkie, and he isn't gay or anything like that (neither is Mark, he thinks), so it wouldn't be important.

"Cool," Benny says. "So… how do I get there again?"

--

"Who the hell is that guy?" Roger grunts when he sees Mark with another man in the doorway. "You got yourself a new boyfriend?"

Mark sneers. Roger's probably still pissed that Mark refused to fuck him in the morning, but hell, shouldn't Mark be the one that's angry? _He's _not the one who's being a total slut here. If the musician could just chill the fuck out and let him bring Benny into the loft, Mark would be happy. But he's being a total ass and bringing Benny here probably wasn't a great idea. The last thing that Mark wanted to see now is Benny walking forward to the rockstar, who is wearing his navy blue sweatpants and no evident traces of underwear, and introducing himself. Shit, shit, _shit_.

"I'm Benny," the man greets and stretches out his hand, but retorts it once he realises that Roger has no intentions of shaking it. "Mark said that I could stay over."

Roger's gaze shoots at Mark. "Oh, _did he_? Mark, I didn't know that you could just bring along strangers as you wished."

"Like you did?" Mark retorts. "Don't worry. He's an old college friend and he doesn't know where to stay yet. He's cool."

"Whatever."

"So… can I stay?" Benny asks doubtfully.

"Yeah, um, you can stay at my room for now, until Collins gets back." Mark says sincerely.

"Collins?"

"Oh, he's our other roomie, _roomie_." The word _roomie _makes Roger turn uncomfortable, _envious_. But he shrugs it off and buries himself in pillows on the couch.

--

The door slides open one more time, while Roger is taking a shower and Benny is sleeping. Hence, Mark is the one to answer the door.

"Who the hell are you?" Mark asks, still grumpy from Roger's attitude earlier.

"Who the hell are _you_, freak?" The woman retorts, forcing herself into the flat. Mark tries to restrain her, but how could he beat her with that scrawny figure of his? "What, do I have to force myself to get in here? Where's Roger?"

Mark, assuming that this had to be one of Roger's new junkie girlfriends, let the stranger in. "I don't know where he hides it, in case you're wondering," he muttered.

"What?"

"The drugs. If that's what you're looking for, I mean…"

Maureen gives him a look. "And I was this close to thinking you were cute. Do I look like I'm after drugs here? Where the fuck is Roger?"

"In… in the shower." Mark clears his throat. "Sorry. You could, um, sit down, if you want."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Are you that _kid_ from Scarsdale? That ought to explain it."

Mark clears his throat again. The word "kid" made him uncomfortable. He wanted to stab himself for the terrible first impression he had given this… this…

"It's Maureen, by the way," the woman says. Maureen gives him a nod, which was body talk for asking him for his.

"Mark."

At that particular moment, Roger steps out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder and track pants over his toned, golden legs. "Maureen?!"

"Hey bitch. You still owe me." She says.

Mark rolls his eyes, his mind filling with rancid thoughts about what kind of person Maureen was. Roger mumbles a "what" and the woman continues.

"I got kicked out of my loft last night. And since you still owe me for all those drinks, your rent and shit, I think this is the best way for you to repay me."

And with that, Maureen took Mark's room, leaving Mark to stay with Maureen, Roger or Benny. Of course, as a no-brainer he had chosen to be with Roger with the feeling that they still had unfinished business with each other. Benny was an old friend, but it would just be too awkward. And the mere picture of how he and Maureen started off, Mark just… couldn't. Besides, the day didn't start so well for him and Roger. In one day Roger and Mark had welcomed two new loft mates, as well as one new mate that Roger has to live with for the rest of his life.

That night, Mark begins to feel uneasy about Roger's presence right next to him. The musician's body is warm, and he would have looked every bit healthy if not for the fact that he really isn't. Mark turns to face Roger, the Mona Lisa expression on his face filled with a mix of pity, disappointment and, well…

"I love you," he whispers. The faint clouds of vapour that escaped his mouth with each breath of those three words touch Roger's bare back, causing him to shuffle. But he doesn't seem to notice this, to Mark turns back to the other side of the bed.

"I heard that," Mark hears a whisper from right next to him. "I love you too."

And those words made all the difference.


End file.
